


Little Talks

by Alina_writes



Series: College Dorks [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Character of Color, Canon Non-Binary Character, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of Death, Movie Reference, References to Shakespeare, ballet reference, first fic, musical reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alina_writes/pseuds/Alina_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five friends get drunk. One of them passes out, and the other four discuss their thoughts on death. Of course, they never got far. At least, not without giggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Talks

    “Have you guys ever wondered how you want to die?” asks Lana, taking another swig of her fruit-flavored beer.

    They are sitting on the floor in the living room, sprawling in different awkward positions, too lazy and way too drunk to even think about resisting gravity for a few seconds. Isaac’s iPod, hooked on their boom box, is on shuffle mode, so the music goes from Tchaikovsky to Sleeping At Last with no apparent pattern.

    If it were six months ago, Lana would freak out at the _thought_ of drinking alcohol, but now, she’s with four other people who love and respect her, and she will damn well finish her second bottle of cheap-ass beer.

    “What has alcohol done to that lovely head of yours, Lee?” Itimad stares at her. “You don’t normally go that deep in conversations.” Under normal circumstances, the filter between Itimad’s brain and their mouth tones down their power-drill-like opinions into courteous if snarky sentences, but once tainted by alcohol, it simply ceases to exist anymore. “Moreover, I don’t think this is a conversation we should be having on a Friday night.”

    “C’mon, this is the perfect conversation to have right now. Look at us. We are five drunken teenagers who don’t know shit. We have to have one of those deep conversations none of us will remember tomorrow,” Lana whines.

    “Not sure if this one counts, though.” Tafari points to Isaac, who is leaning against the former, eyes half-closed, head drooping every ten seconds. Unlike the ginger, Tafari seems unaffected by the alcohol, as he is still, somehow, sketching one of the beer bottles.

    “I think we should do it.” The blush on Winona’s cheeks is almost impossible to see, but judging by the fact that she is wearing a grin much bigger than usual, she’s less than sober right now. “It’s got to be better than just getting drunk and pass out.”

    “Hmm,” Isaac emits, snuggling closer to Tafari. Lana wishes, for his sake, that he wouldn’t remember any of this.

    “Ugh, well. I’ll go first.” Itimad flops down on one of the sofa cushions, squishing it underneath them. “I think I’d like to die of heart attack on stage, during a performance. Just like Brandon Lee.”

    “Uh, Brandon Lee died of a bullet wound during the filming of The Crow,” Lana points out, the little “movie geek” bell ringing in her head. “So you might wanna find another example.”

    “Yeah, yeah, you know what I mean.” They roll over to lie on their back. “I just want to go out with a bang while doing something I love, something I’m really good at, you know?” They reach out a hand, as if trying to catch the light above. “It’s like dying of heart failure while dancing Giselle, or actually getting stabbed playing Hamlet. You know you’re dying, but you’ll die right, and you’ll die a memorable death. Am I even making any sense?”

    “Nope,” Tafari answers, stopping Isaac’s head from slipping off his shoulder with a nudge of his pencil. ” It would help if you tell us which role you want to die in.”

    “King Leontes from the Winter’s Tale.”

    “Isn’t he, um, not dead, in the end?” Winona furrows her brows. “I remember that he actually got his daughter and wife back. The only one who’s dead is his son and the guy who got eaten by a bear.” She starts giggling. “Eaten by a bear.”

    Lana makes a mental note to get Winona drunk as often as possible.

    “Shit, I am drunk.” Itimad rolls back onto their face. “Your turn, Da Vinci.”

    Tafari puts down his pencil and sketch book, plops Isaac down on a cushion, and picks up his pencil and sketch book again. “I think,” he says, after staring at his drawings for a while. “I’ll just go out like a candle after all of this is finished. A simple cardiac arrest, and then no more.”

    “All of this?” Lana says. Wait, is she swaying or is the ground coming to life under her? Oh, wait. It’s just her. “What’s this ‘all of this’? “

    Tafari taps his sketch book. “This. I can’t die before I’ve finished creating things. Also,” he adds, a mischievous smile playing at his lips, “I get to choose who plays me in a movie.”

    “Am I a contender?” Itimad pokes at Tafari’s side with their beer bottle, causing the latter to jerk away at top speed. “Not on your life,” he snaps.

    “Question?” Winona raises her hand. “Is Isaac going to participate in this activity or not?” She gives his toes an experimental prod. He gives no reaction.

    “Nah, he’s out. Besides, I heard him saying one day that he’s going to achieve immortality.” Lana gives Winona an encouraging smile. “Looks like it’s your turn, Nonny.”

    “Well,” Winona straightens her back. “I’m gonna die like a hero. Like, saving a kid from getting hit by a car, or stopping a bank robbery, or writing a book so revolutionary that the government feels the need to terminate me.”

    Her words are met with total silence, save for Isaac’s light snores.

    “That’s wild,” says Itimad. “Where did this swash-buckling fantasy even come from?”

    “They say your life is only over when there’s no one left to remember you, so, I thought, what better way to go than leaving an everlasting good impression?” She starts singing, in a wobbling soprano, “Go down in history/remember me for centuries…”

    “My turn, now,” says Lana, putting down the now empty bottle. She can feel her temples throbbing, blood rushing to her brain in a frantic attempt to replace expired brain cells. Great, she’s going to need them. “I want to die like Jean Valjean.”

    Tafari raises an eyebrow.

    “I mean, I want to die surrounded by the ones I love and love me. I want to die with a clear conscience, knowing that I’ve done well in this life.” Lana studies the calluses on the sole of her left foot, keeping her gaze down. “God knows, I’m done regretting every decision I’ve ever made.”

    “Will you join our crusade/who will be strong and stand with me?” Itimad sings, after a moment of silence. Their voice resonates in the room, tickling Lana’s ears.

    “Somewhere beyond the barricade/is there a world you long to see?” Winona joins. Her soprano, entwined with Itimad’s contralto, becomes steadier and more confident.

    “Do you hear the people sing/say, do you hear the distant drums?” Tafari looks to Lana with a question in his eyes. Care to join in?

    Aww, fuck it. She is eighteen, studying one of the most prestigious colleges in the country, and she’s had more alcohol in the last one hour than she’s ever had in eighteen years. She can risk killing people with her awful voice.

    “It is the future that we bring when tomorrow comes!” She jumps up, waving one of the cushions in the air. The other three give a thunderous applause, until a knock on the door catches their attention. Tafari opens the door to Mr. Knowsley’s irritated face.

    “Kids, I know it’s Friday night, but can you PLEASE keep it down? My kids are trying to sleep downstairs, you know.”

    Lana buries her face into the cushion.

    “Of course, Mr. Knowsley. Sorry, Mr. Knowsley.” Tafari forces a smile as he closes the door.

    “Well, maybe he should try getting his kids drunk. It totally works on this one.” Itimad sticks their bottle to Isaac’s face. The ginger makes an annoyed noise, rolls onto his other side, and continues sleeping. Winona let out a bark of laughter that is a mix of snorting, gasping, and the most ungodly screech Lana has ever heard. Yup, they should totally get drunk more often.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is borrowed from the song by Of Monsters and Men, Little Talks.  
> I don't own Mr. Tchaikovsky, Sleeping At Last, Fall Out Boys, or Les Mis. The drunk kids, however, are mine.  
> BTW, I'm usually the Mr. Knowsley of the building.


End file.
